Five Times John punched Sherlock
by laureleaf
Summary: And one time he punched Mycroft instead. Gen and humor and angst and friendship, no slash.
1. The Bet

**Rating: **K for mild language, some violence.

**A/N****: **The idea popped into my head while watching season 2. Sherlock deserves to get punched far more often than he is.

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. Batman, Ironman, Superman, and Wolverine don't belong to me either. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

One time John punched Sherlock was because of a bet.

It had started like most bets do, a combination of boredom, speculation, and competition.

"Batman would totally beat Iron Man in a fight! He's much smarter, for one thing," said Anderson with authority as he sipped his coffee.

"Really. A man who's pathetic excuse of a disguise is only slightly better that Superman's, _and_ he reveals his true identity to every pretty thing with boobs besides," Donovan sniped back, unpacking her lunch.

"Iron Man gave his bloody address over live TV and taunted a terrorist to blow it up!" Anderson retorted, setting down his cup with a slight _clink_.

"At least he _owned_ it, instead of slinking in the shadows like a coward!" Donovan was getting rather frothed up, crumbs from her sandwich spewing everywhere.

Thankfully, Lestrade made an appearance at this juncture.

"Seriously, people!" he exclaimed, and everyone in the room had the good grace to look ashamed.

"Wolverine would beat them both any day," he smirked, watching their faces. After a moment of awkward faces and stifled laughter, the discussion resumed.

"Seriously, though. Telling your address to your enemy and telling him the front door's unlocked? No one is that stupid in real life," Anderson muttered, contemplating his cooling coffee.

"Sherlock is," Lestrade supplied blithely, narrowly avoiding the spray of coffee Anderson expelled in shock. "Of course, it just proves your point—he _is_ his own special brand of idiot."

The two officers looked at him incredulously.

"What? It's on his website. John's forever whining about how Sherlock always steals his phone for texts, because a criminal might recognize Sherlock's number," Lestrade defended himself against the stares.

"He posted his _number_ too? _Jesus_. Advertising his freakiness for all the other freaks," Donovan looked astounded. "It's nothing short of a miracle that Baker Street isn't a pile of rubble. How Mrs. Hudson puts up with him, I'll never know. And frankly, I don't want to."

"True enough," Lestrade replied, pulling his pizza from the microwave.

"Now _there_'s a thought," Anderson murmured to himself.

"Hmmm?" Donovan asked through a mouthful of chips.

"Mrs. Hudson vs Sherlock. Who'd win?" he supplied.

"Mrs. Hudson" was the emphatic, unanimous, reply. Several other officers had entered the lunch room and were eagerly listening in on the conversation.

"Sherlock threw a man out a bloody _window_ because he laid a _finger_ on Mrs. Hudson. And she's the only person I know that cannot only hug the sociopath without him freaking out, but he hugs her _voluntarily._ Make no mistake, Sherlock is wrapped around Mrs. Hudson's little finger. He'd no more hurt her than kiss his prig of a brother," Lestrade explained. "Besides, it takes one _hell_ of a woman to put up with half the nonsense Sherlock puts her through on a daily basis."

"Ok," Anderson countered, "How about Sherlock vs. John?"

Silence. Then the room broke into two very vocal sides and the arguing ensued.

"John has a George Cross, for chrissakes, he didn't get _that_ by sitting on the sidelines!"

"Sherlock has a bloody black belt, he got it _before_ he went to uni at a ridiculously young age!"

"Bet you 20 quid you're wrong about that medal, and even so, Sherlock could _totally_ beat John to a pulp."

"I'll take you up on that."

"I saw John shoot three perfect headshots in less than thirty seconds on the training lot. _While he was running_."

"Exactly! John would kick Sherlock's…."

"Nonsense! I've seen Sherlock take out thugs three times his size, while _high_ on who knows what sorts of drugs. And I've seen him come out of 4:1 odds with nothing more than a black eye, and the other blokes had to be hospitalized!"

"50 quid!"

The bickering would have gone on for quite some time, if the two people in question had not burst unexpectedly into the room.

They had obviously been fighting, both faces flushed as they pointedly refused to look at each other. Lestrade had never seen John angry before, and frankly, never wanted to see him angry again. Sherlock was all thunder and lighting and dramatics. Nothing new there, just more of the same. John, on the other hand, was ice with a fiery core, boiling emotions kept barely kept in check by a cool veneer of military training. Usually, John was like a little hearth flame, all cozy and comforting. Now, he was more like a volcano about to blow, practically trembling with repressed rage. Lestrade (and everyone else in the room) took an unconscious step backwards, feeling like trapped mice facing a pair of ravenous lions. He wasn't completely sure that he'd much rather face the lions.

"I'm glad to see _Inspector_, that you are so _thoroughly_ investigating that _important_ case that required my _immediate_ attention," Sherlock spat, glaring at everyone in the room. "Wasting your precious few brain cells on this _particular_ topic is quite a _spectacular_ waste of your time. I would win, of course, due to my superior brainpower and stature, as well as my ability to keep my emotions in check, unlike _certain_ people. Pass over the 50 quid, _Anderson_, and may it teach you not to…"

Sherlock found himself quite unable to complete his dressing-down, as the volcano that was John _exploded_. John's heel smashed down on the top of Sherlock's foot, causing him to double over, into the waiting fist that slammed into his diaphragm. A well-placed swipe to the back of the knees caused him to topple over, and John used the momentum to neatly flip Sherlock over his shoulder and onto the lunchroom table, spilling food and scattering dishes everywhere. The entire 'fight' was over in a matter of seconds.

Dead silence for the third time in as many minutes.

All that could be heard was Sherlock gasping for breath and John's angry hiss, one arm pinning him to the table, the other poised to punch his face.

"You forgot _again_, Sherlock, I was a _soldier_. I _killed_ people on bad days. And _you_ have made my day _spectacularly_ bad."

John held Sherlock for a moment more, glowering sparks, before roughly releasing him, causing the gangly detective to roll off the table and onto the floor. As Sherlock sputtered out an apology, the army doctor held out his hand imperiously.

"I believe you said 50 quid?"


	2. Nightmares

**Rating: **K+ for mild language, some violence, danger and angst.

**Category: **Hurt/comfort

**A/N: **This chapter's a bit more serious than the last one, but all's well that ends well, right? And thank you to the people that viewed, reviewed, and followed this story!

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Another time John punched Sherlock, he was asleep.

If one could call being wracked by PTSD-drug-enhanced nightmares 'sleep'.

It was several days after their trip to Dartmoor. John had written up the case and had posted it on his blog before nagging at Sherlock to clean up some of his stuff before he shuffled off to bed. He had been about to tell Sherlock to try and get some sleep himself, but one oh-don't-be-_ridiculous_-John look and he snuffed his doctoring. Sherlock didn't need (much) sleep. Sleep was _boring_.

Sherlock was in the middle of painting some of the toenails from the fridge (in order to later test the effect of different acids on the different nail polishes) when the screaming started.

Earlier in the week, Sherlock had heard John having a nightmare. He had been quiet, soft sobs mostly. Begging, pleading. Wordless mutters. Not an uncommon occurrence—John still had nightmares, about once or twice a month by Sherlock's reckoning, but they weren't too dreadful—John usually didn't even remember them in the morning. So Sherlock had ignored him. It had gone quiet after a bit, as usual. Sherlock had made a hot breakfast for his flat mate… no, _friend_, when he woke up in the morning, looking more haggard than usual. No tea or coffee though, John didn't trust him with that anymore, with good reason.

But this time was much more than a Bit Not Good. A gut-wrenching bellow had first jolted Sherlock out of his experiment, followed by an explosive _scream_ that made Sherlock feel as if someone was performing open-heart surgery on him without anesthesia. He was across the flat, up the stairs, and through the door before John could draw anther shattered breath.

"John," Sherlock said. Nothing. John was usually a light sleeper; Sherlock could wake him by just coming up the stairs, never mind charging through the door.

"John!" more frantic now. Nothing. John continued to writhe on the bed, yelling incoherent orders and unmasked raw emotion.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted, gently laying his hand on John's shoulder. The wounded one, he realized too late. _Shit_.

John punched him, _hard_, threw himself out of the bed, tackled the reeling detective to the floor, and whipped a pistol out of nowhere in less time than it took for Sherlock to utter his oath. With one eye rapidly swelling shut, Sherlock carefully watched the loaded firearm pointed at his head and the oblivious man behind it.

"John," Sherlock said once more, cautiously, calmingly. He watched as the nightmares gradually faded from his friend's eyes, a look of utter horror coming over John's face as he realized what he had unknowingly done, what he had been about to do, the pistol dropping from his shaking hands onto the carpet.

"_Jesus_, Sherlock."

"It's ok, John. It's ok." Sherlock soothed as John tried to regain his composure. "Let me, um, get you a cup of tea and…"

"No."

"I'm not going to _do_ anything to it John, I think we've determined that…"

"No. _You_ are getting some ice on that eye. Come on," he muttered, picking himself up off the floor. John dashed his sleeve across his too-bright eyes before stumbling down the stairs. His time in the army might have ruined his sleep, but he was an army _doctor_ and he had a patient. Everything else would have to wait.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Ouch! Stop it!"

"Hold still, you big baby! If you don't want punched in the face you shouldn't startle ex-army captains! I _told_ you, in case you've deleted it, to turn on the bloody lights if you can't wake me up. Whatever _possessed_ you to…"

"I'm glad you sleep with your gun," Sherlock changed the topic unexpectedly.

"What? Why? Dear god, Sherlock, I almost _shot_ you!"

"If I had been one of Moriarty's henchmen, you couldn't have had a faster, or a better reaction."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. There. Swallow these and make up a good story to tell Lestrade tomorrow. If word gets out that we had a bloody _domestic…_"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"…and that's how I got this hematoma," Sherlock finished.

"Riiight. If you think I'm going to believe that, you're dumber than you think Anderson is. What _really_ happened, John?" Lestrade scoffed.

"Don't look at me, I wasn't there. He told me a completely different story, if you're curious. Something about a primary school field trip and a pink umbrella, if I remember correctly."

Sherlock shot John a dirty look that was expertly ignored.

"Really?" Another, even filthier, look. "Whatever, keep your secrets. I need you to look at this file, I think you might find it interesting…"


	3. Love

**Rating: **K+ for mild language, some violence.

**Warnings: **Spoilers for 'Scandal in Belgravia'.

**A/N: **This scene from 'Scandal' is what started this whole fanfic. Admittedly, I really don't like this chapter, but until I get a better idea/replacement (comment/message me ideas!), it stays, unfortunately. Thanks for all the views, reviews, favorites, and follows! The next chapter will be much better, promise.

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

One memorable time John punched Sherlock, he'd asked for it. Really.

"Punch me in the face," he'd said.

"Punch you." It was a question, but it sounded like a statement.

"Yes, punch me, in the face. Didn't you hear me?" Why was John stalling? He usually did whatever Sherlock asked without question, even if he did hesitate (sometimes) or complain (most of the time). Sherlock didn't have time to explain his plan to get into Irene Adler's house, but then again, he never had to explain his plans to John. John just followed along, content with explanations later.

"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext." _Oh_. Well then. Sherlock had always admired John for his honesty, and often was puzzled at his seemingly boundless patience, but hearing your flat mate tell you he typically imagined you as a punching bag was a Bit Not Good. Did John really hate him that much? If he did, why did he stay with Sherlock? He filed the problem away for later, there were more pressing matters now. Such as getting punched in the face.

"Oh, for god's sakes," he muttered before punching John, nicely. He had _really_ hoped it wouldn't come to this. First and foremost, it would ruin the Plan if there was a mark on John. And he really didn't want to hurt John. _Ever_. But for the sake of the Plan, he had to do it, to get John to punch him so that it looked like he was hurt.

John punched Sherlock, not-so-nicely. It _hurt_. And left a nice cut on his cheekbone. He'd have some nice bruises too, later. _Perfect_.

"Thank you that was, that was…" Sherlock stuttered. The impact had left him slightly dazed, even though he had been expecting it. John's knuckles looked like they hurt. Apparently he hadn't punched anyone for a while. Didn't mean he had forgotten how, though. John turned from his inspection of his bruised metacarpals. There was a dangerous glint in his eye, one that Sherlock had seen only rarely.

Suddenly, he was on the ground, in a chokehold, struggling to breathe. It had happened so fast even his reflexes hadn't been able to respond.

"Ok! I think we've done enough, John," he gasped. The first step of the Plan had been implemented, and he wanted to get on with the next part. Preferably without being murdered by his flat mate beforehand.

"You want to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier. I killed people!" _Wait_. That didn't make sense. John was in the army, true, was trained to handle a firearm, was a crack shot, still is, but a doctor of his caliber wouldn't have been risked by using him like a regular foot soldier. Right?

"You were a doctor!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"I had bad days!" John replied before Sherlock managed to shake off his death grip and flee down the street to Irene Adler's house.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

He was too wrapped up in trying to figure out The Woman that he almost had forgotten the John Problem.

Until she said, "Somebody loves you! If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid the nose and teeth too."

_What?_ John didn't _love_ Sherlock, he wasn't gay, that much was obvious to anyone who had eyes. Heavens, even _Anderson_ could tell John was as straight as a 180° angle. But she _was_ right, John hadn't wanted to punch Sherlock, had to be goaded into it. _Why?_

Then She became _intensely_ distracting, and Sherlock put the John Problem aside.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It wasn't until later, when all the excitement had died down and the drugs had worn off that Sherlock thought about the John Problem in earnest.

After reviewing the footage of the initial discussion stored in his Mind Palace (right wing, second floor, fifth room on the left by the potted cactus, on the mauve table by the pudding) he came to the conclusion that John didn't hate him. Sarcasm. Sherlock spoke it as a second language, but with John, it was hard to tell when he was joking and when he was deadly serious.

If John doesn't hate him, then John must like him.

Flaky logic to be sure, but nothing else really explained the fact that John didn't leave after being kidnapped, threatened, arrested, beat up, and almost blown up because of Sherlock. He wasn't spying on him either, not for his brother and not for anyone else. He wasn't bored, anymore, he had a job at the clinic and an offer at Barts. It wasn't because of the limp, he knew how to take care of that now. And it wasn't because he needed to flatshare, he had enough money now to live on his own.

Also, The Woman said that 'someone' (John) 'must love you' (Sherlock).

Now the problem was one of semantics. What did she mean by 'love'? The definition in English was too broad. A person could 'love' a dog, 'love' fish and chips, 'love' a band, 'love' his girlfriend, 'love' the weather… it was ridiculous how many meanings the simple syllable had. Anything from sex to a passing fancy.

What about another language? Love. Amour. Die Liebe. Rakkaus. Kärlek. Szeretet. Milestiba. Meil. Sayang. Eros…

Ah. The Greeks had four separate words for 'love', each with their own specific definitions.

1) Eros: sexual love. _No_. Sherlock is asexual and John has a girlfriend.

2) Storge: familial love. _Not likely, but possible._ It could also be used to express a putting-up-with-you sort of love, which was definitely true of John, but it wasn't something that The Dominatrix would likely pick up on, so no.

3) Philia: friendly love. _Perhaps. _Sherlock didn't really have _friends_ though… and John said he thought about punching him every time Sherlock spoke, which isn't what friends normally do, right? Punching people is usually a Bit Not Good, and The Woman wouldn't typically think about friends. Friends with benefits, sure, but not _just_ friends, so philia was probably not the love she was referring to.

4) Agape: unconditional love. _Maybe_. John would and had done almost anything and everything Sherlock had ever asked, within and outside of reason. _Unconditionally. _And Sherlock had never really done anything in return.

_That_ was something to ponder.


	4. Bored

**Rating: **K+ for mild language, some violence.

**A/N: **It's a miracle that John has never snapped after listening to Sherlock insult him for a while... Note that I know absolutely nothing about boxing. Bonus points if you catch the cannon reference.

**Disclaimer:**_Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

* * *

The worst time, it was because Sherlock was bored.

_"Bored,"_ came the moan from the couch. The twentieth such declaration in the last hour. One groan every five minutes. John was losing his mind.

"Shut up Sherlock, I'm not your personal entertainment system. Clean up the kitchen or something, heaven knows it needs it."

"_Dull_."

"You _cannot_ be serious, Sherlock," John said, slamming his laptop shut. "Clean it, and clean it now, and stop whining about it. I swear, you act like you're four years old some days! I'm not your mother!"

"I'm fully aware that you are neither female nor related to me, John."

"Right. I'm off to the gym, it better be clean by the time I get back."

"Gym?"

"Yes, Sherlock, that place where blokes go to lift weights and get buff? Not everyone can stay in perfect fitness on a diet of nicotine and coffee and no sleep, we have to eat right and exercise regularly and rest occasionally."

"Can I come?"

"Absolutely not."

* * *

"So help me, if you pull one of your stunts, I will put laxatives in your coffee tomorrow, Sherlock."

"I promised I'd be on my best behavior, John."

"Why doesn't that make me feel better? Anyway, what would you like to try? Weights, ropes, the elliptical machine…"

"Boxing."

"Huh?"

"I've been meaning to show you a few techniques for a while. You _do_ have a rather nasty habit of being kidnapped, I thought we might want to avoid that in the future."

"The only reason I get kidnapped, Sherlock, is because of you, and I assure you that I never make it easy for them."

"Put these on," Sherlock replied, tossing him some gloves.

John just glared.

"A little practice never hurt… ooof!" Sherlock grunted as John punched him in the stomach.

"I'd say _that_ hurt."

* * *

Not surprisingly, the sparring lesson soon turned into an all-out war. Sherlock's advantage was his height and quick wit, while John's was his compact build, dry sarcasm, and wealth of ammunition.

"_Please_, John, that last punch was so _predictable_ my dead grandmother could have seen it coming. Can your funny little brain come up with nothing better?"

"_My_ 'funny little brain', Sherlock? That's rich, coming from a man who can identify two hundred and forty three types of tobacco ash, of all things, but can't be _bothered_ to remember that the earth goes round the sun!"

"You 'can't be bothered' to update your wardrobe! Seriously, John, where did you find those ridiculously horrid jumpers? A fashion magazine from 1895?"

"So says the man who could pass as a woman's fashion model. Seriously, Sherlock, with your girlish figure and flowing locks, have you ever considered a career in crossdressing when your 'consulting detective' job falls through?"

"At least I _have_ a job, Mr. Unemployed. _I _didn't need to flatshare, _you_ did. I might despise Mycroft, but at least _my_ sibling cares enough to not leave me in the lurch!"

"_Your_ sibling? Besides being more of a prig than yourself, something that I wouldn't have thought possible, he's goddamn Big Brother from 1984! If I'm so _dull_, as you like to put it, why bother keeping 24-7 surveillance on me? I'm not blind, don't think I haven't noticed the tails. And by the way you're always on my laptop, I'd swear _he_ was paying _you_ to spy on _me_!"

"_Dull_, hardly covers it, _John. _Try insipidly, tediously, predictably _boring. _You give 'normal' a bad name, you're so unoriginally bland. What on _earth_ would you do without me? Go limping back to that standard-issue, cookie-cutter, generic, nauseatingly _average_ existence?"

"Without you? Without you, I wouldn't have to be worried about being poisoned in my own kitchen because of some bloody experiment you failed to warn me about. I would be able to open the fridge without wondering what random body part will be housed next to the milk, which you never buy anyway. And I wouldn't have to worry about being kidnapped every other month and beaten senseless over something I really don't know anything about, because _someone _didn't think it _important_ enough to tell me. I wouldn't have to worry about being arrested for things I didn't do, or having to apologize to god and everyone about stuff _you_ did, Sherlock. Every time _I_ get into trouble, Sherlock, it's _your_ fault!"

"_My_ fault! _You're_ the one that was stupid enough to be captured and held hostage like a pretty little princess. Next time, do swirl your skirts and swoon in order to complete the effect."

"_I'm_ the princess? I'm not the one with a ruddy _palace_ in their head. Is it pink and purple with rainbow trim? It would suit you, really. And if anyone here is a knight in shining armor, it would be me, the only military-trained, heavily-decorated _captain_ in the room, who has _actually_ saved a few damsels in distress in the _real_ world, thank you very much, _not _in my imagination."

"Is that so? Well, then, where are all these grateful damsels now? From what I've observed, you must have a whole _harem_ of rejected conquests. I swear, John, you go through women like Donovan goes through pantyhose."

"The reason I can't keep a steady girlfriend is because of YOU! And I am _not_ collecting a 'harem of rejected conquests', because I, unlike a certain ridiculously dramatic someone, am a gentleman. I, unlike you, am capable of having a nice night out without horrifying, mortifying, embarrassing, and verbally eviscerating everyone in the room!" John yelled, punctuating each word with a blow.

"Everyone deserves it because everyone is an idiot, John, including you. I'm doing your poor little placid minds a favor by reducing the stupidity in the room and raising the IQ of the entire population," Sherlock retorted, rolling his eyes.

"_I'm_ the idiot? I'm not the one that has to be reminded to _eat_ every day. Or to sleep at least once a week. I'm don't make a habit of running off, _unarmed_, after dangerous criminals with _no_ backup and _no_ plan. All you see is the precious _case_. London could burn to the ground before you could be _bothered_ to care about _anyone_, you machine!"

"Machine, am I? Fine. At least I'm not some sobbing sentimental useless friendless _cripple_…"

John saw red.

He'd been able to keep his head throughout the fight, he'd had a _lot_ of practice bearing Sherlock's insults. But never before had Sherlock _purposely_ aimed his razor-sharp tongue to wound John. Whoever said words could never hurt them had obviously never been in an argument with someone they cared about. Getting the crap beaten out of him definitely hurt less. Hell, getting _shot_ was almost preferable to hearing the words 'useless friendless _cripple'_ come out of Sherlock's mouth.

"John." His name wavered up from the floor. Apparently John had knocked Sherlock down (out?) in his furious barrage of wrath.

"John, I'm sorry."

Any other day, he would have been surprised. He would have been excited, even proud that the Great Sherlock Holmes had decided, for once, that he was _not_ perfect, that he was _wrong_. Not today.

"John, I didn't mean it." _Yes you did._ John threw down his gloves and stalked out of the room.

"John…" Sherlock trailed off miserably.

* * *

**A/N: **This story doesn't end here! Due to popular demand, I expanded it (extensively) into "Hard Knocks". Check it out!


	5. Dead

**Rating: **K+ for mild language, talk of suicide, some violence.

**Warnings: **Post-reichenbach and all the angst that implies. Apparent character suicide and discussion thereof.

**A/N:** Sorry for the late update, I'm still in the process of moving into Germany and I just got internet. Got this idea from Star-Eye, the fabulous. There's a lot of fanfiction detailing John angsting after Sherlock, and vice versa, but no one really discusses the fact that Sherlock _committed_ _suicide_, under questionable circumstances besides. And kudos if you catch the canon reference!

And I know that I've been writing some heavy stuff, don't worry, there's humor in the future! This will be a "Five times John punched sherlock and one time he punched M. instead" fic.

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. The Bible passage is from the Bible, if you want to know you can look it up in the translation of your choice, if not, you can ignore. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

One time, John punched Sherlock when he was 'dead'.

It had been exactly three weeks since the fall. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. Thirty thousand, two hundred and forty minutes. Exactly.

John was looking at where the body had landed, staring blankly at the blood that wasn't there, turning the sidewalk red. He sat on one of the benches in front of the hospital, trying to pull himself together, trying to ease the pain in his leg, the ache in his heart, the confusion of his mind.

_Why_ had Sherlock done this? To himself, to John. Sherlock _had_ been prone to self-destructive behaviors, but he knew his limits, to a certain extent. And John made sure he never exceeded them. But _suicide_?

Sherlock loved life, the thrill of the case, the excitement of solving a good puzzle. Yes, he got bored, but he shot the _wall_, for heaven's sakes, not _himself_.

And if Sherlock didn't love the case, he certainly loved himself. The words 'vain' and 'narcissistic' hardly covered it. If his head was any more bloated it would have made a nice hot air balloon. John had never met anyone so obsessed with his own talents. And to top it off, the man's attention to his toilette was ridiculous. John wished he knew how Sherlock kept his suits all in mint condition when the kitchen looked like an exploded alchemist's workshop. And by the amount of product in his hair, John would have said the detective was gay if he didn't know better.

But most importantly, Sherlock didn't care what others thought. He'd said as much, but his actions spoke louder. 'Proper social behavior' didn't really hit his radar, unless he was trying to get something. And when John had asked him about it, he appeared more concerned with the fact that John was concerned than with the fallout of his reputation.

Well, maybe he cared a little. The 'idiot' population's opinion didn't matter, of course, but John's did. And maybe Lestrade's. John had never seen Sherlock so upset because of another person as when Lestrade came to warn them of his impending arrest. Why had he gone from being terrified that they thought him a mass murderer to practically begging John to proclaim it through the streets?

Why did he tell _John_ to tell everyone the lie? He was smart enough to know that John would see through it. The emotions were real though. John had seen Sherlock pretend to cry enough times to know when he was faking. So _why_ did Sherlock hide the truth, whatever it was, from John? The entire conversation was so out of character it made John nauseous to even think about it.

_Why, Sherlock?_ The reason's he'd given in his 'note' were preposterous, of course. John had seen Sherlock deduce too many things, too many times, to believe that it was all a show. He _knew_ Sherlock. And Sherlock was for real. As he'd said before, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick _all_ the time.

It was just _wrong_. Even if Sherlock wanted to commit suicide, he wouldn't have just jumped off of Barts. He wouldn't have overdosed on drugs, either. He had promised John, _really_ promised, never to touch the vile things again. And John believed him. No, if Sherlock was going to commit suicide, he'd do it as dramatically as possible. Jump off the tower of London in front of the Queen, shoot himself on live TV, light himself on fire to protest Anderson's stupidity, run himself through with an harpoon for an experiment or _something_. He wouldn't just fall off a hospital in front of no one but John. Too _boring_, as he would have said. He was Mr. Punchline, for chrissakes. If he couldn't outlive God, he would find a way to still have the last word in his death.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong. _John picked himself up off the cold bench. Time for a tactical retreat. He couldn't fight this battle. Not alone. Not without... _him._ He'd already packed up, left the flat a several days ago. John couldn't stand 221b anymore, not alone, not with reminders everywhere of what had been. He might have stayed, redecorated, for Mrs. Hudson's sake, but Mycroft wouldn't let anyone touch Sherlock's possessions, for some weird reason. John would have called it sentiment, but he knew better with Mycroft.

He was limping badly by the time he rounded the corner. _Damn_. His leg had been acting up ever since Sherlock's death, but never this bad. He had mostly ignored it, kept a brave face and a strong stride, soldiering through the pain and the grief. But this time, it wasn't going to be ignored. Hopefully it would go away if he moved on and picked up a hobby like skiing or skydiving to get his adrenaline rush. He didn't want to think about what he'd do if that didn't work. There weren't any cabs in sight, so John sat down on another bench to wait for one. He didn't notice the homeless man standing next to him until he spoke.

"Bit o' change, sir?"

"Sorry, no." Seeing the elderly scruffy man made John think about different times, the homeless network that Sherlock had so carefully maintained, the cases their information had helped solve...

"Oy! Aren't you that doctor chap that used to hang around the psychopath?" the unshaven, slightly foul-smelling man asked, waving a stack of tabloids that he had been selling.

John abruptly stood up, eyes flashing.

"He wasn't a psychopath, he was a well-intentioned, often misunderstood _friend_," he said quietly, dangerously.

The hunchbacked man hadn't heard him, apparently, and continued with his diatribe. "Right weirdo he was. Heartless bastard too, from what I heard. Makin' up stuff just to make him look good, getting off by killin' people…"

John wanted nothing more than to make the man stop, stop spewing the lies that just _might_ have pushed Sherlock to despair.

"I believe you have Sherlock Holmes confused with Jim Moriarty." Last warning.

"Why'd ya stick around, doc? He couldn't have actually _cared_ for you, the sociopathic _freak,"_ the filthy white beard twitched in a mocking smile.

John didn't believe in punching people weaker than himself. Usually, this category included girls, the elderly, the weak, the homeless.

John _really_ didn't care about ethics right now.

He didn't notice the slow smile that grew beneath the broken nose of the ragged man as he stormed away, limp gone.

Later, he _did_ notice the scribbled note on a grimy sheet of paper that hadn't been in his jacket pocket before.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I believe that he died for a reason, one that had nothing to do with the tabloids. Don't give up the fight. Proverbs 24:16._

0-00-00-00-00-00-00-00-00-00-00-00-00-00-0

End note: I've had suicidal friends... nothing is harder than to watch someone you care about hurt themselves. If you're struggling with this issue, or know someone who is, _**please get help as soon as possible**._** People really care and they can really help.**


	6. Mycroft

**Rating: **K+ for mild language, some violence.

**Warnings:** Empty House material.

**A/N:** And the grand finale:"He had it comin', he only had himself to blame. If you had been there, if you had seen it, I betcha you would have done the same!" Mycroft deserves to be punched just as much as his brother, if not more.

Also, I'd like to think that Sherlock wouldn't leave John in the dark for three whole years...

Thanks for everyone who has viewed, reviewed, shared, favorited, followed, or commented this story. Hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have. Sadly, this is the end (for a while) as I'm studying abroad in Germany for the rest of the summer. Check out KCS if you want some better fanfiction than mine!

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. The quote above is from the best song in 'Chicago'. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Go away, Mycroft."

"Now, now, my good doctor…"

"I'm not _your_ doctor, and you know better than most that I've been a Bit Not Good for the last, what, _three years_? Wonder why."

"Yes, John, of course. However…"

"However my ass. Go _away_ Mycroft."

"I only have your best interests at heart, John, you…"

"Forgive me if I don't believe you. Your 'best interests' drove your brother to suicide."

"Yes. Well. About that…"

"What about? I'm not listening to your convoluted excuses or half-hearted apologies. Your fault. Get. Out."

"John…"

"No."

John raged past the umbrella man, snagging his ragged coat on his way down the stairs. If Mycroft wouldn't go, he would. He wasn't spending another moment in his insufferable presence. He _would_ do something he wouldn't regret, but might have to spend a long time in prison for.

He ran straight into the tall man ascending the stairs, toppling them both onto the landing in a tangle of limbs.

From the top of the stairs, Mycroft called down, "You are early, for once, brother dear. How unusual."

_Brother dear. My god. _

John looked at the man lying awkwardly lying underneath him, taking in the dramatic black coat, the curly hair, the long, angular face, the piercing eyes… _impossible. _

"John…" Sherlock said as his friend hastily scooted away, back against the wall, chest heaving with unexpressed emotion.

"You didn't," Sherlock muttered. Then louder, "You didn't, Mycroft. _You didn't tell him._"

"It was safer if he didn't know," was the blithe reply. "And it was a bit _obvious_ that you weren't actually dead, if the Doctor had cared to notice."

"You are a dead man walking, Mycroft." The not-so-minor government official paled slightly at the look of utter rage coming from his little brother.

"John," Sherlock said tenderly, countenance changing completely as he turned towards the trembling man. "A million apologies. I thought you knew. I am so very sorry. I never meant…"

"Sherlock." It wasn't a question, but it wasn't a statement either.

Sherlock went over to help John stand, only to be almost barreled over with an explosive hug. He felt something like a sob tremble through his purple shirt, but when John looked up, his eyes were clear.

Mycroft had made his way down the stairs, slowly, twirling his umbrella.

"Now. If you are quite finished, Sherlock, we have some important matters to discuss privately, namely…"

Both Sherlock and John turned on Mycroft simultaneously. John's punch left an impressive black eye, while Sherlock's blow was a little beneath the belt.

A few moments after Mycroft fell gasping on the floor, the ever-present, never-seen bodyguards swarmed the flat. Sherlock and John bashed their way through, flying through the two doors and out onto Baker Street. Sherlock led John through twisting alleys, up and down fire escapes, across rooftops, all at a break-neck, breath-taking, _fantastic_ pace. It was just like old times, but _better_ because they hadn't been able to for so long.

Eventually, it appeared that they had shaken off the last of Mycroft's men and they collapsed, gasping, against the wall in an abandoned building. They were both laughing like idiots, just like after their first chase, a lifetime ago.

"The _look_ on his _face_…" John chuckled. "_God_, Sherlock, I'm glad you're back."

"The miserable prat deserved that and worse. He was _supposed_ to tell you everything after a month, when it was safe. I never meant to hurt you, John. You weren't supposed to suffer like you have all these years, I didn't know... I couldn't contact you myself other than that one risky note. I _trusted_ him, I thought you knew…"

"It's alright, Sherlock. You're _back_, you _aren't dead,_ that's what's important. Wait. Note?"

"Yes John, you were busy punching me, disguised as a homeless man, when I slipped it into your pocket."

"Well, then, I don't feel so bad about punching Mycroft instead of you back at the flat. And why, when you were in disguise, were you being so… insufferable?"

"It fixed your limp, didn't it? And I never said I didn't deserve it."

"Damn right. Come on, let's get moving before those goons track us down. I want to take another swing at the British Government, it would be a shame if his eyes didn't match," John grinned evilly. Sherlock smirked back before dashing off into the darkness.


End file.
